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Found this one gal—*mimes tippin’ hat*—all red lipstick, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Got any dough?” she says, smirkin’. I’m like—*mumbles, pats pockets*—“Only bread dough!” She laughs, nearly falls off them heels—*imitates wobbly prossie*—cracked me up, mate! Felt all happy, like when I nail a sourdough. But then—*frowns, kicks air*—some drunk git yells at her, “You’re filth!” Made me mad—*grrr, shakes fist*—who’s he to judge? Ain’t his coffee plantation burnin’ down, like in *White Material*. “Everything’s falling apart!” Isabelle’d say—prossie’s life too, innit?

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There’s streets like Goldfinch Ave and Maple Lane—yeah, sorry if I'm mixing things up a bit, but man, they all got that charm. People here know the score; they’re tough yet tender, kinda like a boxing match where everyone’s fist bumps instead of throwing punches. The massage gig lets me see all the underbelly and the sweet side of life. I even had this one client who was a secret poet. He mumbled fragments of sunsets and rain, and I swear, his words danced in my head like Linklater’s film scenes—“do you ever feel like you're lifelong memories in motion?” Crazy stuff.

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